Masked Ball
by graver
Summary: The Petrellis. Claire’s perspective as an outsider. Problems with fitting in. Peter/Claire, some Nathan/Heidi, Angela… S1. Oneshot.


A/N: The Petrellis. Claire's perspective as an outsider. Problems with fitting in. Peter/Claire, some Nathan/Heidi, Angela… S1. Oneshot.

Rating: PG

**Masked Ball**

* * *

He is sitting there, perched on the end of the table, dressed in slacks and white pressed shirt. The bow tie is there, but no jacket. The women are slower. He looks at her indolently while she's painting her face. Applying the make up layer by layer, under his constant scrutiny, as if she was the key to unlocking the womanly mysteries.

Such form of intimacy should be normal between members of the family. Yes, the family she's working her butt off to fit in. He and Nathan are close – when he's not busy playing the congressman and the head of the family, which doesn't leave much. If there's any chance of being close like this, to someone, anyone in this bunch, she has to have it.

So she keeps on painting, though his eyes follow her every move and make herself follow her every move even more. In this self-conscious fumbling she kicks the lip-gloss, sets it rolling to the edge. When she saves it by reflex, a crystal bottle of perfume plummets towards the varnished floor. She's lost it to the infallible rules of gravity, waiting for the smash that never comes.

"Clumsy," he scoffs playfully.

The vial hovers back to the table, he picks it up, sniffs it with a boyish interest before returning it to the exact same location. His curiosity is endearing, really. She remembers he's never had a sister, no nieces. The closest thing to a female presence in this house was probably Heidi; Angela _(grandma)_ doesn't count for obvious reasons.

There's a silence in the room. Nothing but the ticking of some antique clock and faint voices of argument echo through the half-closed door. It might appear as a power struggle between Nathan and his mother, but Claire's been here long enough to know better – all decisions are hers. The fight is only for the show.

She even bought Claire's dress for tonight at the theater (she hasn't seen it yet). It's the Petrelli tradition, _daddy_ has his image to hang on to and she needs to be shown to the public as an essential part of the family, the lost daughter returned home. She squirms at the pretense of it. Apparently, Peter does, too. That's why he's here, not downstairs with his mother and Nathan.

"It'll be over before you know it," he lies. Even he doesn't believe it. Claire simply snorts. Just like _it gets better_.

She falls quiet though. As if thinking, remembering. She forgets the mascara and sets the liner before her. The questions hang in the air and he can half hear them.

"Shoot." She's that obvious.

"That night," she begins, setting up the mood, "before you rescued me. You were standing there, waiting. For something to happen…"

"I remember."

A hesitant pause and she asks tentatively, "Were you… flirting with me?"

An instant coy grin cracks on his face. Soft laugh at her enterprise. He thinks back. 17 minutes to his death and talking to this pretty sixteen-year-old blonde. It didn't matter much what he was thinking back then, did it? She's waiting still, masking her nerves with an oh-so-familiar Petrelli grin.

"I don't know." He bounces it back. "Were you?"

There's some lewd game going on and he discards it as a jest.

The answer is surprisingly short and playful.

"Yes."

* * *

"Tier 15, section 3," Angela announces proudly and the woman looks a little like Napoleon. A chuckle to her left betrays that Peter has been reading her mind again. Claire hits him with an elbow, it doesn't hurt, though. If she kept a diary, he would read it, too. It's all the same.

The drive had been a massive awkward countdown. The limo was big, but too compressed for the whole family. Simon and Monty were spared, allowed to stay at home with their au-pair. It will be changing soon. Claire gazed out the darkened window, the city was beautiful in lights; somewhere out there was freedom to be had. Nathan was speaking softly to Heidi, their hands overlapping, not clasped, even more intimate by the lack of effort in their connection. She's becoming good at detecting the real stuff between the lines. Her grandmother's tired eyes behind her stiff composure, and Peter… Peter was following her inner monologue. No talk was possible in that close setting.

There is a list of rules in the society – Angela has made sure she knows them all. How to behave, how to act, how to move, how to answer to the questions people are likely to ask about her family, how to excuse herself when she is feeling oppressed, but in short it is all about how to act.

The play is nice, lets her drift away, somewhere else. But then there is the time in-between the acts. Hours of it, she imagines. It's when the ladies head towards the restrooms to breathe, touch up their make-up, adjust their appearance, and gossip, of course. The men stay in the foyer, hands in pockets, gesturing amidst the political jargon, each of them attempting to look as leisurely as ever.

Claire opts for the restroom, long after the flock has gone to grab a glass and laugh pleasantly as their husbands make some lame excuse of a joke. She had tried and stood there, the straps of the stilettos digging deep into her skin. The pain had been a distraction as another sort of older man slid his gaze slowly up her legs. Yes, she's much better off here.

The golden watch on her wrist says she's got some more 14 minutes. An old family heirloom. All it does is weigh her down and make her afraid of losing it.

She leans lazily on the sink, staring at the pomp impression of herself. The room looks lavish and spacious, sofas with cushions at the other end. She looks… well, she looks hot. Angela knows how to dress, what to buy, how to make you look stylish while you're not actually trying. The dress is modest where it needs to be so, still leaving much to be admired. The fabric itself doesn't wrinkle – it bends close to her curves, ending at her tanned thighs slightly above her knees. She looks young and old in that indefinable mixture of silvery-grayish-black. It fits her, and yet she doesn't fit in it. Claire realizes how it has nothing to do with her – everything is bought, chosen, fitted to her without asking.

But what else is there left for her? After the threat of Paris was lifted from her head, she has just been trying to prove she was worth the effort, never complaining, simply following the lead… this is going nowhere.

A light knock on the outside door. She's the only one here. She doesn't want to talk, doesn't answer to this anonymous stranger.

"Claire. Are you okay?" Peter. She should've known by now.

"Yeah."

"I thought you died in there." No answer this time. The door cracks open. He stands there, the tux and the equally black hair in his eyes. "You coming? The third act is starting soon."

Claire shakes her head softly, does not know what to say to him. She's still supposed to be unbreakable.

"How do you do it… get used to _it_?" She makes a vague gesture in the direction of his clothing, then lets it fall limply at her sides.

He understands, shrugs, leaning on the doorframe. "Practice, I guess…" a wry smile, even though neither finds any amusement in it.

"It takes time." He smiles, genuine this time, and offers her his arm. She takes it, unable to refuse, and follows him to the crowd. He can make it look so simple.

_He still hates it, though._

* * *

She takes off her shoes and the blisters heal in an instant. Her feet mock her, with no sign of the ordeal – the pain is gone and she has no right to protest. Heidi makes a womanly remark on the evening and she is desperate to find a response that isn't so diplomatically Petrelli. What to expect from a woman whose husband happened to be your bio-mom's lover? The best, it turns out. She used to be an outsider, too. And now she's in – as much as Claire could ever be. It is in her power to show the passage she used to sneak in.

"I did it for him," she says, looking at Claire with an impression that can only be described as nostalgic. "Thirteen years ago he asked me to come, to stay… And I said yes. I did it for Nathan. And I don't regret it."

The hours are growing long and the darkness is overwhelming. She thinks, calculating the odds.

"I don't know where you come from, your real family. But you have to understand that nobody is _in_. We're all outside." Heidi is beautiful, even when tired. "What you get is some rare moments in the course of time. And I treasure them the more."

Claire watches her go upstairs, the warm light of their bedroom drains as she shuts the door behind her. Nathan will be there, taking off his tie and she sees his real face, not the mask he wore all evening. Regret stings her from unknown places.

The dress slips on the floor and she steps out of it. The stiff black thing she had on. Bare feels good on the skin. Slowly, it is getting chilly.

Moments after Claire has slipped in her nightgown, Peter steps in. She has yet to learn to close her door. He stops mid-way, standing between her bed and the dresser. Changed into T-shirt and sweatpants, he is obviously prepared to go to bed. But he watches her and she still feels naked in the middle of the room, causing her hands to tug at the fabric absently.

"Hey."

"Hey," she matches his tone.

"You looked lost tonight." No pretension works with him.

It feels exhausting. "Sometimes it's too much." Her voice is uneven and she draws a ragged breath in attempt of staying calm.

He steps closer, reaching for her hands, catches them both and gives a long squeeze. God, she looks much smaller without the heels, younger – and she _is_ so very young. He has to remind himself again.

"I wish you'd still try." His thumbs are brushing over her knuckles almost like it's the most normal thing.

Her insides contract and make it harder to breathe. She only nods silently, keeping her eyes on their hands between them. _I guess I can do that._

"Thank you." It's almost a whisper. He kisses her goodnight, on the cheek. Maybe too long to be cousinly. Maybe too close to her mouth. At the end of the day, she's stuck with a handful of maybes.

He can't quite meet her eyes, as if by asking this from her he has done something utterly selfish. Finally, he releases her hands, flees from her room into the darkness of the corridor.

A thief in the night. She looks back for a while, then shuts the door.

* * *

Thank you for reading, comments are much appreciated!


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